Sc hol a s t ic I nc .

New Yor k

Text copyright 2015 by Catherine Doyle

All rights reserved. Published by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers
since 1920. chicken house, scholastic, and associated logos are trademarks and/or
registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc. www.scholastic.com
First published in the United Kingdom by Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome,
Somerset BA11 1DS. www.doublecluck.com
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding
permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway,
New York, NY 10012.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Available
Doyle, Catherine, 1990
Vendetta / by Catherine Doyle. First American edition.
pages cm
Summary: When five brothers move into the abandoned mansion next door, Sophie
Gracewells life changes forever. Irresistibly drawn to bad boy Nic Falcone, Sophie finds
herself falling into an underworld governed by powerful families. When Sophies own
family skeletons come to life, she must choose between two warring dynastiesthe one
she was born into, and the one she is falling in love withProvided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-545-69982-2 (alk. paper)
[1. FamiliesFiction. 2. LoveFiction. 3. VendettaFiction. 4. MafiaFiction.
5. Youths writings.]I. Title.
PZ7.1.D69Ve 2015
[Fic]dc23
2014020255
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

15 16 17 18 19

Printed in the U.S.A. 23

First American edition, March 2015
Book design by Kristina Iulo
Bertrand Russell, The Conquest of Happiness (Liveright, 1996), copyright 1930 by
Horace Liveright, Inc.; copyright renewed 1958 by Bertrand Russell
Friedrich Drrenmatt, Incident at Twilight (1952)
The publisher has made reasonable effort to contact the copyright-holders for permission,
and apologizes for any errors or omissions, which will be rectified at the earliest opportunity.

f o r m y da d

Part I

Of all forms of caution,

caution in love is perhaps
the most fatal to true happiness.
bertrand russell,

The Conquest of Happiness

Chapter One

The Honeypot

didnt see it at first, sitting between the cash register and a

stack of order pads. It might have been there for hoursor
longerjust waiting, while I spent another day of my summer
dying of boredom inside Gracewells Diner.
There were just two of us left to lock up tonight. I was hovering beside the register, drumming my fingernails on the
countertop, while Millie, my best friend and partner-in-
waitressing, glided around the diner and sang into the push
broom like it was a microphone. Everyone else had left, and my
uncle Jackmanager not-so-extraordinairehad stayed home
with a hangover.
The tables stood resolutely in rows, flanked by straightbacked, burgundy chairs and the occasional rubber plant. The
door was locked, the lights were dimmed, and the window booths
were clean.
I was trying not to listen to Millie destroy Adele when I
noticed it: the jar of honey. I picked it up and studied it.
I think Im getting better, Millie called mid-song-murder
from across the diner. The only thing she got right was the faint
3

British accent, but thats only because she was British. I can hit
that high note now!
Big improvement, Mil, I lied without looking up.
The jar was small and rounded. Inside, honey dotted with
crystals of gold swayed lazily as I tilted it back and forth. A fraying square of cloth covered the lid and, instead of a label, a thin
velvet ribbon encircled the middle, finishing in an elaborate bow.
It was black.
Homemade? Weird. I didnt know anybody in Cedar Hill
who made their own honey, and I knew almost everyone in Cedar
Hill. It was just that kind of placea little pocket on the outskirts of Chicago, where everybody knows everybody elses
business; where nobody forgives and nobody forgets. I knew all
about that. After what happened with my dad, I became infamys
child, and infamy has a way of sticking to you like a big red
warning on your forehead.
Millie hit the last note of her song with ear-splitting vigor,
then skipped behind the counter and stashed the broom away.
You ready to go?
Where did this come from? I balanced the jar of honey on
the palm of my hand and held it out.
She shrugged. Dunno. It was here when my shift started.
I looked at her through the golden prism, which made her face
distorted. Its weird, right?
Millie rearranged her features into a classic I-dont-reallycare-about-this-topic-of-conversation look. The honey? Not
really.
Its homemade, I said.
4

Yeah, I figured. She pulled her eyebrows together and

reached out to touch the glass. The ribbon is kind of odd. Maybe
a customer left it as a tip?
What kind of customer tips with pots of honey?
Millie gasped, her face lighting up. Did you... She breathed
in dramatically. By any chance... She exhaled. Serve...
I leaned forward in anticipation.
...a little yellow bear...
I cant believe I fell for it.
...called Winnie-the-Pooh today?
Her laughter set me off, it always did. That soundlike a
duck being strangledwas what drew me to her when she
moved to Cedar Hill five years ago. At school we would always
find ourselves laughing at the same things. It was the silly stuff
making stupid faces; giggling inappropriately when someone
tripped and fell; enjoying long, nonsensical conversations and
discussing ridiculous hypothetical situationsthat brought us
together. Back then I didnt know it would be the only friendship
that would survive what happened to my family eighteen months
ago, but it didnt matter anymore because Millie was the best
friend Id ever have, and the only one I really needed.
We laughed all the way through closing, until we were outside
in the balmy night air.
Located on the corner of Foster and Oak, the diner was a
modest, low-lying building made from faded brick. It was perfectly symmetrical, its squareness reflected in the boxy windows
that dominated the exterior and the small parking lot that surrounded it on all sides. Along the overhanging roof, a scrawling
5

Gracewells sign was half-illuminated by streetlamps that lined

the periphery of the lot. Right across the street, the old library
loomed against the night sky, half-hidden by a line of neatly
clipped trees that continued west past the general post office and
on down the sidewalk.
I was still holding the well-dressed pot of honey as we crossed
the empty parking lot. Its not like anyone would care, I told
myselfwith my uncle Jack at home nursing his self-induced
headache, there was no one official around to claim it. Id only
done what any jaded, underpaid employee would do in my situationclaimed a freebie that I had no immediate use for and
walked away from the diner feeling triumphant because of it.
So Ive been thinking. Millie slowed her pace to match
mine.
Be careful, I teased her.
Maybe I should take the honey.
Finders keepers, I sang.
Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. She put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me toward her. We were almost the same height,
but while Millie was curvy in all the right places, I was boyskinny and chipmunk-cheeked like my father, though I had
inherited his dimples, too, which was somewhat of a silver lining.
Millie squished her cheek up against mine, as if to remind me of
that. I felt her smile. My best friend in the whole world, ever. Oh,
how dull would my life be without you in it? The stars wouldnt
shine half as bright, the moon would be but a shadow of its former self. The flowers would wither and

No way! I slithered out of her grip. You cant compliment

your way into my honey stash. Im immune to your charm.
Millie scrunched her eyes tight and released a soul-destroying
whine. You already get the whole freakin diner. Cant I just
have the honey?
Even though she was right, inheriting the diner when I turned
eighteen was hardly my lifes greatest ambition. They were my
fathers instructions before he went away, which would no doubt
be enforced by my gloriously grumpy uncle Jack, who happened
to exude a particularly pungent aura of I-dont-take-no-for-ananswer. It didnt matter anyway. Millie and I both knew the
diner wasnt something to be excited about. It was just one big,
dead-end headache waiting to crash into my life. But the blackribboned honeypot? That was prettya nice surprise to lift the
monotony of the day.
Millie shuffled behind me. Sophie, this is your conscience
speaking, she whispered over my shoulder. I know its been a
while since weve talked, but its time for you to do the right
thing. Millie is so nice and pretty. Dont you want to give her the
honey? Think of how happy it would make her.
I didnt know my conscience had a British accent.
Yeah, well, dont read too much into it. Just give her the
honey.
I stalled at the edge of the parking lot, where we would
peel off separately into the night. Before my parents income
was halved, Millie and I used to walk in the same direction,
to Shrewsbury Avenue, where there were housekeepers and

g ardeners, giant pools, and crystal chandeliers hanging inside

actual foyers. Now my walks home were a whole lot longer than
they used to be.
Millie doesnt even like honey, I hissed. And she has no
respect for bees. I saw her stamp on one three times last week to
make sure it was dead.
Its not my fault this country is overrun with obnoxious
insects.
What do you expect? Its the middle of July!
Its a disgrace.
And you were wearing Flowerbomb perfume.
He was being inappropriate.
So you murdered him.
Millie shot out her hand. Just give me the freaking honey,
Gracewell. I need it to bribe my way out of a grounding.
I raised my eyebrows. We had just completed an eight-hour
shift together and she hadnt mentioned this. Grounded?
Total injustice. Complete misunderstanding.
Im listening...
Alex called me a braceface. Millie paused for effect. Can you
believe that?
Well, she did have braces. And they were technically on her
face. But I didnt say that. Instead, I did what any best friend
would do. I adopted an expression of pure outrage and pretended
to linger over what a rude tyrant her not-so-mature-but-
definitely-hot brother was.
Hes such an ass, I offered.
Hes literally the worst human being on the planet.
8

Anyway, one thing led to another, and his iPhone fell out the
window...Well, it sort of fell out of my hands...which were
coincidentally dangling outside of his bedroom window at the
time...He completely freaked out on me.
Oh, siblings...
Well, youre lucky you dont have to share your house with
any douchelords, she ranted. What kind of nineteen-year-old
guy squeals on his younger sister? I mean, where is the honor in
that? Hes a total disgrace to the Parker name. And how was I
even supposed to know his phone would break?
Weird. Honey still in hand, I leaned against a nearby
streetlamp and watched my shadow curve inside its puddle of
light. I could have sworn the latest iPhones had tiny built-in
parachutes.
Millie started to swat at the air, like the problem was floating
around in front of her. If I give my mum that thoughtful jar of
honey to use in one of her baking recipes, then shell see me as
the kind, caring daughter that I am, and take back the unjust
grounding, which was unfairly handed out because of my ignorant, pigman brother.
I straightened up. Thats never going to work. Im keeping
the honey.
Whatever, she said, with an elaborate flick of her pokerstraight brown hair. Its probably poisoned anyway.
She stuck out her tongue and flounced off into the darkness, leaving me alone with my hard-won bounty. I slid the
jar into my bag, watching the wisps of black ribbon fall away
from me.
9

I crossed the road and paused, trying to decide which way to

go. After six shifts in a row, the balls of my feet were throbbing,
and because Millie and I had stalled for so long, it was already
later than it should have been. The longer way home was usually
my preferred optionit was well lit and well traveledbut the
shortcut was significantly shorter, bypassing the center of town,
winding up the hill instead, and looping around the haunted
mansion at the end of Lockwood Avenue.

10

C h a p t e r Two

The Boy with Haunting Eyes

he moon was full and high but the evening seemed darker
than usual. After fifteen minutes with only the sound of my
footsteps as company, the turrets of the old Priestly house climbed
into the sky ahead of me, peering over the neighboring houses
like watchtowers.
Beautiful as it was, the mansion had always reminded me of a
childs dollhouse that had crumpled in on itself. Its whitewashed
wooden exterior caved in at strange angles while corners jutted
out like knives, piercing the overgrown masses of ivy. A stone
wall covered in leaves snaked around the exterior; it was the only
house in Cedar Hill that could boast such privacy, but its gothic
aura did more to repel intruders than its boundary.
People who knew the house spoke of it with equal amounts
trepidation and wonder, and often, to pass the time, would imagine their own stories about it.
When I was seven years old, my mother told me of a beautiful
princess who would spend her days high up in the turrets of the
old house, hiding herself away from an arranged marriage with a
miserable and boring prince. By the time I turned ten, kids in the
11

neighborhood had decided it was the spellbound home of a wily

old witch. She would fill the sprawling rooms with cats and frogs,
cauldrons and brooms, and, deep in the night, she would fly out
into the sky and scour the neighborhood for stray children who
should have been fast asleep in bed. When I met Millie, she told
me about the vampires, who stood just inside the cracked windowpanes, peering out with glistening crimson eyes.
Then, at fourteen, when I was completing a school history
project about Cedar Hill, I stumbled across the chilling reality
of the mansion. There were no witches, no princesses, and no
vampiresjust a story about a young woman named Violet
Priestly, a frontline nurse during World War II who had come
out the other side as a drastically different version of herself.
Traumatic memories haunted her like ghosts until her hallucinations became too strong to ignore. Not long after poisoning her
husband and their young son, she hanged herself in the foyer of
the old mansion.
Of course, no one wanted to buy it after that.
Nothing could sweep away the darkness that huddled around
the Priestly corner. Even during the hottest summer days,
when the streets shone with mirages, there was an unmistakable
iciness shrouding the mansion. And so it endured for decades, as
a beacon from another time and place, resolutely empty, and
utterly unconquerable.
That was, until tonight.
As I drew closer to the mansion, rubbing the warmth back
into my suddenly chilly arms and second-guessing my decision to

12

come this way in the first place, I realized with a start that the
house had changed entirely since the last time I had seen it.
Someone had finally done itreally done it. The abandoned
Priestly mansion had been dragged into the twenty-first century,
and now, it was alive again.
I stopped walking.
The rusted wrought iron gates were wrenched open and
pushed against hedges that no longer languished across the garden wall. The weeping willows had been pruned to an almost
unnatural neatness, revealing windows on the second story that I
didnt know existed. The ivy had been cut away to reveal sturdy
wooden boards and a newly painted red door lit up by a teardrop
lantern on either side.
And in the light of the lanterns were two black SUVs parked
side by side on freshly strewn gravel.
My phone buzzed against my hipa text from Millie letting
me know she had made it home safe, and an inadvertent reminder
that I hadnt. Reluctantly, I moved to continue on my way, but
something inside was stopping me. The Priestly mansion, the
frozen heart of Cedar Hill, was beating again, and lateness be
damned, I had to know more about it.
And thats when I sensed something. I shifted my gaze up
past the trees and caught sight of a flickering figure in an
upstairs window. It was a boy. I couldnt be sure of his age, but
even from a distance his bright eyes were unmistakable. They
were too big for his delicate face and as they watched me from
what seemed like another world, they rounded into discs that

13

grew unnaturally. He leaned forward and pressed his palms

against the glass, like he was about to push the pane from the
window frame. Was he waving? Or telling me to go?
I raised my hand to him but it stalled, clammy and unsteady,
in midair. And then, as quickly as I had noticed him, the strange
boy was gone, vanished into the darkness behind him until the
house, with its brand-new face, was still again.
Frowning, I let my eyes slide down from the empty windowpane across the driveway as the darkness ahead of me came alive.
The faint sound of rustling wafted through the air, and I squinted
until I could make out another figure behind one of the SUVs.
He was hunched over, searching for something inside.
I tried to fight the desire to investigate, but my palms grew
shaky at my sides as curiosity overwhelmed me, pushing me
toward the house. I shuffled forward from the sidewalk, creeping
just inside the open gates, and the rustling stopped. A car door
shut and the sound of loose gravel shifted in the darkness. The
figure straightened, his head appearing from behind the vehicle,
moving in tandem with the noisy gravel until he stood between
the house and the gates, watching me watch him.
Even beneath the lanterns, he was just an outline: a tall
shadow with broad shoulders and sure movements. He paused
and lowered his arm, easing a duffel bag toward the ground
with deliberate slowness until it was settled at his feet. He
stepped to the side and pushed it with the force of his boot until
it disappeared behind the closest SUV and away from my prying
eyes. But I had already seen it, whatever it was, and we both
knew it.
14

He tilted his head to one side and stepped closer, one purposeful stride and then another, as he closed the space between
us. With each step, my heart thumped harder in my chest.
My curiosity evaporated, leaving reality in its place: I had been
caught trespassing, and now this shadowed figure was stalking
toward me.
I turned and stumbled back out onto the deserted street. As
the sound of heavy footsteps split the silence behind me apart, I
broke into a run, completely unprepared for the cat that hurtled
out in front of me with a shrill meow. As I skidded to a halt, my
arms flailing at my sides, he crashed into my back, silencing me
midscream by jolting the wind from my lungs, and sending me
flying through the air. I dropped my bag and landed on the sidewalk with a thud, my hands and knees scraping the pavement.
Dizziness flooded me, sloshing the contents of my dinner back
and forth in my stomach.
Before I could piece together what had happened or just how
exactly I was going to be murdered, I was lifted out of my bubble
of pain, away from the asphalt and onto my feet again, to where
I had been standing seconds before, like someone had pressed
rewind.
Only this time, something was different. There was the feeling of strong hands on my waist. They held me upright as I
wobbled back and forth, trying to find my balance.
Stai tranquillo, sei al sicuro. The words were so strange and
unexpected, I thought I had imagined them.
I dropped my gaze and found his hands around me and suddenly I saw myself, as if from above, relaxing into the arms of a
15

complete stranger on a deserted street in the middle of the night,

in front of the most notorious house in Cedar Hill.
A stranger who had just caught me trespassing and then
knocked me to the ground.
I had seen enough romantic movies to appreciate a swoon-
worthy momentbut I had also watched a lot of CSI. With a
start, I pushed the unfamiliar hands away from my body and leapt
forward. I crouched and grabbed my bag from the ground, catching a glimpse of the thick silver buckle on his leather boot before
springing back up and hitching my bag onto my shoulder hastily.
I looked up at him, wishing I had something weapon-worthy in
my handbag, just in case. But he stood still, his face a collection
of shadows in the darkness. He didnt make another attempt to
attack me, and I didnt wait around to give him the chance.
Dont follow me. My voice sounded stronger than I felt.
I turned and started to run.
I heard him call out, but I was already gone.
I didnt turn around, but I was sure I could feel the shadows
eyeshis eyeson the back of my neck as I ran. The distant
sound of laughter followed me through the darkness.
I got home in record time. After depositing the pot of honey on
the kitchen windowsill and trudging upstairs, I rubbed some
ointment on my stinging knees and crawled into bed. After what
felt like hours of staring wide-eyed at my ceiling and listening to
the urgent thrumming in my chest, I fell into an uneasy sleep
during which dreams of boys in windows dissolved into nightmares about shadowed figures and black-ribboned pots of honey.
16

Chapter Three

The Gossip Merchant

here wasnt a whole lot that irritated me. However, the

source of such rare annoyance had managed to slither into
my house and ruin the sunny morning barely before it began.
...Its not a good omen, Celine. I have a sixth sense about
these things...
Rita Baileys voice, which was shriller than a police siren, had
no trouble infiltrating my bedroom despite the fact she was an
entire floor below me. I scowled at my ceiling. I didnt want to
hear about Lana Greens affair, Jenny Orins worsening psoriasis,
or the Tyler kids lice scandal. But the volume of the old ladys
voice left me with no other option. I would have to suffer it
either way, and, given the depressing messiness of my bedroom
coupled with my desire to eat breakfast at some point, I decided
to face her head-on and get the most unpleasant part of my day
over with.
I rolled out of bed, crawling between crumpled jeans and
inside-out T-shirts to fish out a partially obscured bra. Springing
to my feet and swiveling around without touching anything
because sometimes I liked to make a game of itI swooped a
17

pair of denim shorts off the ground and pulled them on before
settling on a white tank top and my favorite pair of Converse.
After putting on some moisturizer and pulling my hair into a
messy braid, I crept downstairs, steeling myself for what I was
about to hurtle into, coffee-less and overtired.
Rita Bailey, an old, portly woman with cropped white hair
and pinched, shrunken features, hunched over the kitchen table,
sipping her coffee in an outrageous pink pantsuit. Beside her, my
mother was politely enduring her company, offering a tight smile
and a robotic head nod at appropriate times. She had even cleared
part of the table, which was usually buried beneath stray sewing
projects and piles of fabric samples. Now confined to just one
square foot of space, they balanced precariously against the wall,
threatening to topple over them.
When we lived in a spacious four-bedroom house on
Shrewsbury Avenue, my mother had two whole rooms dedicated
to containing the explosions of materials needed for her dressmaking, but here, her works-in-progress always seemed to spill
from room to room, following us around our cramped home in
every shade and pattern imaginable. Yards of Chantilly and ivory
lace stretched along armchairs, jostling for space beneath mannequins in short summer dresses and rich evening gowns. On
several scarring occasions since wed moved here a year and a half
ago, I had woken up screaming at the sight of a half-finished
dummy bride perched in the corner of my room, or a denim dress
that should never see the light of day.
It wasnt that my mother didnt have some sort of system in
place, its just that no one but her could ever figure it out. She was
18

probably the most organized disorganized dressmaker in all of

Chicago, and I think she liked it that way. Mrs. Bailey, who was
staring narrowed-eyed at the teetering pile of fabrics across the
table, evidently did not.
I swept into the kitchen, pulling her attention away before her
frown became so intense it broke her face. Good morning, Mrs.
Bailey. That wasnt so bad.
She refixed her stare on me. Good morning, Persephone.
I winced. It had been a while since I had heard my name in its
hideous entirety and, unsurprisingly, nothing had changedit
still sucked. But the way the old lady said it always seemed to
make it worse, drawling over the vowel sounds like she was talking to a five-year-old childPurr-seph-an-eeeee.
I prefer Sophie, I replied with a level of exasperation that
usually accompanied the topic.
But Persephone is so much nicer.
Well no one calls me that. It wasnt my name and she
knew it. It was just a symbol of my mothers fleeting obsession
with Greek mythology, which had, rather unfortunately, coincided with the time I was born. Thankfully, my father had given
up on the mouthful within the first year of my birth. It didnt
take him long to think of Sophie as a passable alternative
the name I suspect he wanted all along and one that rendered
me eternally grateful to him for two reasons: 1. that I didnt
have to go through life with a barely spellable relic for a name,
and 2. that he didnt nickname me Persy instead. When my
mother conceded defeat, I became Sophie for good. Plain, simple, and pronounceable.
19

How do you even know to call me that anyway? I added as

an afterthought. For all the times Mrs. Bailey had intentionally
wrongly addressed me, I had never thought to ask her how she
had discovered one of my best-kept secrets. Then again, she was
the first person to discover the location of our new house when
we moved, despite the fact we had actively tried to hide it from
her, and it was nearly an hours walk from Shrewsbury Avenue.
Maybe she was clairvoyant after all.
I saw it on a letter once.
Where?
I cant remember. She sounded affronted by the question. It
may have fallen out of your mailbox.
Mmhmm. Snoop, I noted mentally.
Beside me, my mother was circling the top of her mug with
her finger. Sophie, she chided gently, why dont we talk about
something else?
Why? Are you still trying to shirk the blame for naming me
the most hideously embarrassing thing you could think of?
Even though my voice was light, I was only half-joking. Not that
it seemed to matter to my mother; she found my name-based
indignation inexplicably amusing. I guess it made sense. The
whole joke was hers in the first place and now it was following
me around through people like Mrs. Bailey or Uncle Jack, who
used it like a weapon when he was angry at me for taking
impromptu nap breaks at the diner.
I think the name Sophie is just as lovely. It suits you, my
mother pandered, smirking into her mug until all I could see
were the tips of her delicate pointed brows. I felt a tiny pang of
20

envy for their symmetry. Everything about her was dainty and
refined, like a pixie. Through the magic of genetics, she had only
passed her sunny blond hair and her heart-shaped face to me.
But, by the wonder of mimicry, I had also acquired her tendency
for extreme messiness and her inability to cook properly. I
was reserving judgment on where my diminutive height came
from, because I was still hoping to miraculously grow another
three inches before my seventeenth birthday, which was rapidly
approaching.
At the word Sophie, Mrs. Bailey emitted a long noise of
ragged disapproval. It sounded like she was choking, and, fleetingly, a small, morally devoid part of me hoped she was.
I crossed over to the countertop to fill my mug and caught
sight of the honey jar on the windowsill. Streaks of sunlight
winked at me through the glass, as if to say Good morning! It
would be a shame not to try it, I resolved. I grabbed a spoon and
pried the lid from the jar, setting aside the frayed square of cloth
that covered it and taking care not to disturb the black velvet
ribbon.
Behind me, Mrs. Bailey was practicing her favorite hobby
the art of lamenting, Persephone is so much more elegant. It
might not suit her now, but she could always try and grow into it.
Thanks, but I think Ill just stick with Sophie and continue
to live in the modern world. I dipped a spoon inside the jar and
twirled it.
You look so tired this morning, Sophie, Mrs. Bailey informed
the back of my head, laboring over my name like it was difficult
to pronounce.
21

Ignoring her taunt, as well as the civilized option to put the

honey in oatmeal or on toast, I stuck the heaping spoonful of it
straight into my mouth.
Shell be bright and chirpy once shes had her caffeine fix,
my mother explained over my shoulder. The edge in her usually
calm voice informed me that her patience was finally wearing
thin. Even after my fathers screwup, my mother had managed to
retain her inhuman level of kindness, which meant she was still
too polite to turn a sixty-something, lonely, annoying Mrs. Bailey
away, even when her conversations mainly consisted of disapprovals and backhanded compliments.
Are you sure, Celine? She seems so exhausted. Shes a shadow
of what a sixteen-year-old girl should look like. She should be out
in the sun, getting a tan. She used to be such a pretty little thing.
Seriously? I would have responded with bitchiness in kind, but
the honey was sticking my teeth together.
My mother released a small sigha specialty of hers. It was
ambiguous enough to mean anything to anyoneIm tired/
happy/disappointedbut I had a feeling it was intended to
politely draw the topic to a close.
Fighting the urge to take my coffee and run, I turned around
and seated myself firmly at the kitchen table, dragging the chair
legs against the floor as noisily as I could and reveling in the look
of discomfort on Mrs. Baileys face.
OK, lady. Lets go. I hope I didnt interrupt anything important. The labored, honey-laden words masked the sarcasm in my
voice. I took my first, glorious sip of coffee and felt the steam rise
up and warm my nose.
22

Well actually, you did.

Quelle surprise. I always seemed to be interrupting Mrs. Baileys
groundbreaking news bulletins.
I was just telling your mother that a new family has moved
into the Priestly house on Lockwood Avenue.
I was utterly shocked by my unexpected interest in anything Mrs. Bailey had to say. But suddenly there I was, glued
to Cedar Hills resident gossip merchant like she was about to
announce the finale plot of my favorite TV show. An onslaught
of questions formed inside my brain. Where do they come from?
How are they related to the Priestlys? Why are you wearing that crazy
pink suit?
Well, I bet it will be good to have some new faces around the
neighborhood, my mother interjected before I could begin.
The old lady shook her head like she was having a seizure. She
leaned across the table and looked pointedly at each of us in turn
as if calling for our undivided attention, which she knew she
already had. She dropped her voice. You know I have the gift of
sight, Celine. Ive been seeing things ever since I was a child...
I had to blow into my coffee to hide my smirk.
I was walking by the old Priestly place a couple of weeks ago
and I got the most unsettling feeling. When I saw the renovations and the moving vans, it all started to make sense. The house
is full again and I just know its not good.
Maybe we shouldnt jump to conclusions, my mother offered.
I could tell by the airiness in her voice that her attention was
beginning to wander. She started to pick at a stray thread in her
capri pants, frowning.
23

I considered telling Mrs. Bailey to chill out, too, but she had
already redirected her gaze toward our backyard as if she were
looking into another secret dimension. But in reality, she was just
staring at the potted plant on the windowsill. She squinted her
eyes and sighed, probably noticing it was dead.
Nothing good will come of having five young men making
trouble in the neighborhood, because thats exactly what theyll
do, Celine. You mark my words.
She shook her head again, but every cropped white strand of
hair remained perfectly static, like they were frozen in place.
Wait, did you say five guys? I had already seen two of them.
Well, one of them, sort of. The second one had knocked me over.
I frowned at the memory. Even after a night of reflection, I still
wasnt sure what to make of it.
Mrs. Bailey was, of course, scandalized by my interest. Her
mouth was bobbing open and closed, like she was trying to find
the exact words for how much of a disgrace I was. Five young,
troublesome men, she heaved at last, clutching at her chest for
added effect. I saw them move in and I can tell you, they do not
seem like the respectable type.
Isnt that what you said about my father? I wanted to ask, but I
stopped myself. The argument wouldnt be worth it. It never was.
And besides, I had gotten all the info I needed: There was a new
family of boys in the neighborhood. Millie was going to keel over
with happiness when I told her.
Distracted, I got up to take my half-filled mug to the sink. I
think having new neighbors is pretty cool.

24

Whats cool about it? Mrs. Bailey threw the question at my

back like a dagger.
I turned around. Whats not cool about it? Nobody ever
comes to Cedar Hill willingly. This place is so boring. It feels like
any minute now were all just going to fossilize. Maybe some of us
already have...I stopped myself again.
Theres no need to be so dramatic, she returned.
I blinked hard to suppress an inadvertent eye roll.
Im sure those boys are perfectly fine, reasoned my mother,
who was rifling through her sewing kit. I could tell she was more
interested in finding a needle to fix the single thread on the pants
that had betrayed her.
Mrs. Bailey was still wearing a frown that was beginning to
twitch from the effort of keeping it in place. No, Celine, theres
something not right about it. That house has been empty for too
long. And we all know the reason.
Ghosts, I whispered dramatically. I wanted to add an
Oooooo, but I figured that might be going too far.
Mrs. Bailey rose abruptly from her chair, shrugging on her
shawl in a show of clumsy indignation. When she spoke again,
her voice was low. You can make jokes all you like, Persephone,
but you just better be careful.
I glanced at my mother and was surprised to find that she had
returned her attention to our conversation.
Notoriety attracts notoriety, Mrs. Bailey was muttering
without looking at either of us. And with what your father did,
its best to be aware of

25

I think thats enough, Rita. My mother rose from her chair,

fixing the old lady with a dark look. Sophie can handle herself.
She knows how to be careful.
Yeah, I echoed, feeling a million miles away. I was thinking
about how I had steered myself into trouble the night before. The
stinging in my knees resurfaced at the memory.

26